To the End of All Taint
by joanamidena
Summary: A small compilation of Bellatix Lestrange's thoughts as she left for the Hogwarts Battle.  Slightly Bellamort, contains spoilers of the seventh book.  - Rated T for strongly-picturesque language and angst.


For I read someday that we suffer from three different sides.

Firstly, from our body, which, destined to ruin and liquefy, slowly fades and crumbles whithin itself.

Secondly, from the world outside us, which can slaughter us with forces uncontrollable and implacable.

Third, from our relation with people surrounding us.

For him, this statement was fake. At the top of his magnificence, he overthrone age and death – his body would not to break, his eyes would not falter, his skin would not dry to the bone, his whole existence was already eternal. He did not relate with the ones around him. I do not lie, for any kind of life besides his own was not worth of anything. Maybe loyalty would be rewarded and failure, punished. But it was enough and no more, no trust, no friendship, no commiseration.

And the only person who once harmed him in the world was the now-dead boy I hated most. Oh, no, that filthy bastard had no chance against my lord, but I loathed the boy, for what he once had done with him. Now the world outside did not offer him any threat, he was to conquer it fully.

But then, I was not like him.

My body was destined to failure, to rapture, to crack inside my bone-shell, to turn into dust – I was to suffer pain as days went by, I was to end screaming inside – becoming a wizened figure. The world around me offered as many danger as someone like me could bear, for I was skilled, but not immune to cuts, dirt and disturbance.

For I read in the same day that the worst was to relate with the ones around us.

For I would know that better than anyone. I had served, I had tried to become a shadow of his majesty, a distorted mirror of his image, offering what I knew of life, humanity, sanity – though I never let any hope quiver down my body. And as years went by, I bared me of all I once possessed, handing down the pieces of tarnished love and unveiled devotion. And I did not succumb to the glazing wish, I never held a single thought of perspective.

Did he see it? His mind was far more powerful than anyone else's, so I do say that yes, he saw it. And for that I was grateful – he didn't torn me away or stopped me from adulating him, even if I am certain he only did that not to lose a servant as loyal as me. All I was, all I wanted. No, I was not like him, I did not deserve more than to be tortured when failing and to be praised when pleasing. Remaining the most twisted, remaining the most desperate, remaining on my place, to provide him from anything he ever needed.

And now, the need was for me to fight. I was to open way, crawling under his feet, as we ended that one last battle. That gave me pleasure, a frenzy bursting inside me for he was to win, for he was to end with all that should have been ended seventeen years ago. No one would oppose his greatness anymore, oh, that sweet, intoxicating sensation that grew inside me when he was satisfied.

I turn to fight that bloodtraitor. I cannot but mimic her voice, her irritatingly high voice, I cannot but laugh histerically, for I feel fully realized and none can take the glory of serving, of giving every inch of my body to provide satiety for those who aspire fresh, bloody victory.

My laugh is cut short.

I fall.

They told me this was instantaneous. If that is true, how to explain the lasting of this second? I know it is instantaneous. I have seen it before. Now, though, I am not so sure – I see him, I see everyone and I know now I am bound to the same fate I gave others. As much as I always expected it, I could never think it would come in such a precious moment: when it seemed universe had reached perfection.

Pain rips down my body. Not the first, not the second. The third. I reach now the perfection, only now everything is in unison, everything sintonizes, because I was a servant, I gave everything to him, or I thought I had.

I know I didn't, since only now, in this everlasting second, my wish is fully granted – there is nothing else for me to offer. It is my fate, I do not walk on the tighrope any longer, I do not dwell the abyss of a twisted mind: everything is sharp clear.

I'm dying for him.

_First attempt at Bellamort, been fawning on the pairing for days. The theory of the three ways of suffering comes from a book by Sigmund Freud, named 'Das Unbehagen in der Kultur' (Civilization and Its Discontents, english title). Reviews are appreciated (: _


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